


Inferno

by LokiCobalt (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arson, BAMF Harry, Child Abuse, First War with Voldemort, Fix-It of Sorts, Grey Harry, Harry-centric, I Adopted this Work, Julius Aidan Sullivan is Harry James Potter, M/M, Magic Mirrors, Marauders era, On the Run, Original Character Death(s), Orphans, Ravenclaw Harry, Rebirth, Sad Harry, Sarcasm, Second Chances, Snarky Harry, Street Rats, Time Travel, Vampire Harry, Vampire Senses, Vampire Voldemort, Voldemort Adopts Harry, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LokiCobalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 87 years old, Harry Potter lies alone on his deathbed in Azkaban Prison, and realizes that he regrets everything his life has brought. He would give anything to change that fate if he could. Just before he dies he receives an intricate mirror, which sucks his soul from his body, and throws him back in time to be reborn as an entirely different person in his parents time. This is the story of Julius Aidan Sullivan, and how he changed the future that never would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inferno

**Trickster Blue**

**Inferno**

**Prologue**

\----

October 14, 2067

Azkaban Prison

\--

_Live off your blood, live off your pain_

_And when you’re gone, forget your name_

_~ Smile Empty Soul - Vultures_

\--

Regret is nothing new to Harry. He has spent the last fifty years rotting in a drafty prison cell, regretting everything his life has caused. So much death because he could not die like a good little boy. He has lost everyone he loves, some dead, some abandoned him. He tried so hard to save everyone, but all it caused was more death. All it caused was more hatred. The Ministry declared him a criminal after Voldemort died by his hand, and he spent the next nearly twenty years running. Twenty years out in the cold desolate world as his friends cut all ties, and those he saved cursed his name. Yet, his regret has nothing to do with how his life turned out, and it has everything to do with how everyone else suffered.

Were Hermione or Luna still alive, he imagines they would laugh at him for being such a self-sacrificing idiot. It landed him in prison and them in graves side by side. The two of them followed him to Azkaban as ghosts, but the Dementors ended them only months later. The lonely years have been kind and cruel to him, kind because no death has been caused by him, but cruel because the memories and demons of his past have drowned him for years.

Azkaban is kind. Pure. Azkaban has no lies or illusions in wrapped in pretty words. It is pain, suffering, and suffocating in the darkness of one’s soul. It is nothing like war, which is a game of manipulation and pretty lies. Harry has lasted in this simplicity for longer than any other inmate. He’s watched people die, and seen people finally finish their sentences to get out and live in a world made free from the Dark Lord, but full of cruelty in the form of laws and deceit. Azkaban is pure, but only when compared to freedom.

Freedom is an illusion, and now that he lies dying on a cold stone slab with a ratty blanket and lice covered pillow, Dementors surrounding him in silent apprehension, Aurors ready to record his time of death, he can think of no place he would rather be. Outside is a comfort only in blissful ignorance. He’ll take his insanity and sadness any day over going back to the lies.

He sighs, shaking his head to get back to the present, and struggles to sit upright to take the package he’s been sent. He still has some fans, it is inevitable being who he is, and it is sweet that some poor soul decided to send him something, given that everyone in the entire magical world is aware that he is not going to last the night.

It is a small hand mirror, the gift sent by an anonymous person, made of intricately spun brushed black metal, and clear quicksilver glass. Vines creep up the thin handle and frame, with tiny amethyst stones cut into teardrops and placed like petals on flowers sparsely placed near heart shaped leaves. It is beautiful, and sings with magic. There is a note written in red cursive at the very bottom. _Regret Nothing._ What it means he knows not. He flicks his eyes up to the reflection in the mirror, and he cannot recognize himself. The reflection smiles at him, winks as his own mouth drops open, and he watches as elegant looking hands grab him without anyone noticing. He has enough time to watch himself die, and then there is a feeling like he’s drowning.

The next thing he is aware of is the cold, a bright light, and something sounding like shrill screaming.

\----


End file.
